II Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying, Though Love knows no denying! Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing! "_Chorus_," the great Fool tossed his gorgeous crest, And lustily crew against the deepening dawn, "_Chorus_," till all the Cheape caught the refrain, And, with a double thunder of frolic feet, Its ancient nut-brown tabors woke the Strand:-- A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so,-- Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go. Into the Mermaid with a shout they rushed As I shot back the bolts, and _bang, thwack, bang,_ The bladder bounced about me. What cared I? This was all England's holy-day! "Come in, My yellow-hammers," roared the Friar Tuck Of this mad morrice, "come you into church, My nightingales, my scraps of Lincoln green, And hear my sermon!" On a window-seat He stood, against the diamonded rich panes In the old oak parlour and, throwing back his hood, Who should it be but Ben, rare Ben himself? The wild troup laughed around him, some a-sprawl On tables, kicking parti-coloured heels, Some with their Marians jigging on their knees, And, in the front of all, the motley fool Cross-legged upon the rushes. O, I knew him,-- Will Kemp, the player, who danced from London town To Norwich in nine days and was proclaimed Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers and hedge-king Of English morrice-dancery for ever! His nine-days' wonder, through the countryside Was hawked by every ballad-monger. Kemp Raged at their shake-rag Muses. None but I Guessed ever for what reason, since he chose His anticks for himself and, in his games, Was more than most May-fools fantastical. I watched his thin face, as he rocked and crooned, Shaking the squirrels' tails around his ears; And, out of all the players I had seen, His face was quickest through its clay to flash The passing mood. Though not a muscle stirred, The very skin of it seemed to flicker and gleam With little summer lightnings of the soul At every fleeting fancy. For a man So quick to bleed at a pin-prick or to leap Laughing through hell to save a butterfly, This world was difficult; and perchance he found In his fantastic games that open road Which even Will Shakespeare only found at last In motley and with some wild straws in his hair. But "Drawer! drawer!" bellowed Friar Ben, "Make ready a righteous breakfast while I preach;-- Tankards of nut-brown ale, and cold roast beef,